


Burn your paper fingers in the ashtray

by indefinissable



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 12:20:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3134297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/pseuds/indefinissable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is pitched low as he emerges from the tent, a dark shape against the blackness of the forest and the snow blanketing the ground.</p><p>Bucky starts. He reaches instinctively for his rifle, propped next to him against the tree, has to count to five in his head before he can release his grip on it. </p><p>“You planning on freezing to death out here?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn your paper fingers in the ashtray

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for mentions of trauma.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is pitched low as he emerges from the tent, a dark shape against the blackness of the forest and the snow blanketing the ground.

Bucky starts. He reaches instinctively for his rifle, propped next to him against the tree, has to count to five in his head before he can release his grip on it.

“You planning on freezing to death out here?”

Bucky shrugs and tries to light a cigarette – _tries_ being the operative word, since his hands won’t stop shaking.

Steve drapes something heavy around Bucky's shoulders – his coat – and kneels next to him, takes the lighter and holds the flame steady.

“Thanks,” Bucky mumbles, drawing the coat tighter around him. He can feel Steve’s gaze on him. “I’m fine. It’s not even that cold.”

It’s only partly a lie. It’s probably close to freezing, if not under. But Bucky knows cold, and it isn’t here, in the snow in the middle of the night in the Ardennes. If only he could get his damn hands to stop shaking.

Steve looks at him suspiciously. “Are you – _Jesus_ , Bucky – Are you even wearing boots?”

“Nah,” Bucky says, soft so his voice won’t crack. “Still full of mud.”

That’s not technically a lie either, but it’s not the reason. When Bucky had jerked awake in his mummy bag, his head a cloud of _trapped_ and _can’t get out_ , the desperate need to escape overrode anything as complicated as putting on his boots. He hadn’t even realized he’d forgotten them.

“Bucky,” Steve says again, and reaches out to touch his cheek.

Bucky flinches, and Steve draws his hand away.

“You’re freezing,” says Steve, not quite able to disguise the hurt in his voice but still so tender that all Bucky wants to do is curl up on the ground and put his head in Steve’s lap. “Talk to me. Please.”

Bucky flicks the butt of his cigarette away, watches it burn dimly against the snow. He draws in a breath of crisp night air, trying to get rid of the scent of sterilizer and his own piss and shit that descends on him every time he tries to sleep. Bucky doesn’t think he’ll ever be warm again, but the chill of the winter doesn’t even come close to whatever Zola pumped into his veins, biting so cold it _burned_ , and Bucky was sure he’d be torn apart from the inside.

Bucky wants to tell Steve. He wants to explain that he is cracked, and that if Steve touches him he’ll break and all his insides will spill out over the ground, burned and frozen and scarred beyond repair.

The words get caught in his throat and die there. Bucky is so tired.

The lighter flicks and the flame illuminates Steve’s jaw, where his hands are cupped around the cigarette between his lips.

“Since when the hell do you smoke?”

“I don’t, really,” says Steve. He shrugs. “But it’s not like I have asthma anymore, and they just give us the cigarettes, so.”

Steve passes the cigarette to Bucky. Their fingers brush, and Bucky tries to hide the tremor in his hands. He breathes out smoke slowly. His head drops back against the tree.

“Hey,” Steve says. “No falling asleep. You don’t even have shoes on. You’ll get sick.”

Bucky doesn’t think that’s likely. Steve’s hand settles on the back of Bucky’s neck, firm and radiating heat. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

“Come on, Buck,” Steve says. “Gotta get you warmed up. Let’s go inside.”

Bucky’s too tired to fight him, and the aftermath of the panic has left him shaky and nauseous. He nods and Steve stands, reaches back down to pull Bucky up. Bucky’s legs almost give out, but Steve is strong enough for both of them now.

Bucky takes some deep breaths and tries not to throw up while Steve leads him back to the camp. When he’s got it together enough to pay attention again, Steve is undoing the ties to the entrance of his own tent.

“Steve.” Bucky gestures pointedly at the cluster of other tents holding the rest of their unit. They’re all good guys, but Bucky isn’t in the mood to test anyone’s loyalty.

Steve shrugs. “We’ll just tell them you were borderline hypothermic, and also an idiot. It won’t even be a lie.”

He pushes Bucky into the tent and strips Bucky’s clothes, soaked through from sitting in the snow. Then Steve guides Bucky into his mummy bag, pausing to shuck his own clothes before climbing in next to him and pulling Bucky into his broad chest.

Steve is like a furnace, and it almost hurts to lie next to him. Bucky can hear his own teeth clattering. Someone is breathing too loudly, too harsh, almost like moaning.

Steve is saying, “Shh,” and, “Buck. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Bucky is startled to realize that the noise is coming from him. He bites the inside of his cheek to make himself shut up and tries to take deep, even breaths. His hands find Steve’s biceps and grip tight. Steve’s lips are moving against Bucky’s forehead.

Steve says, “I promise. I promise.”

Bucky has no idea what Steve is talking about. He only knows that Steve has never made him a promise he didn't keep.


End file.
